From Chapter XXXIV
The stone itself was glistening,
yellow, sunburned stuff; metallic is ring and brittle; splitting red
or green or brown as the case might be. From ever soft place
sprouted thorn bushes; and there was frequent grass, usually growing
from one root in a dozen stout blades, knee high and straw coloured:
the heads were empty ears between many-feathered arrows of silver
down. With these, and with a shorter grass, whose bottle-brush heads
of pearly grey reached only to the ankle, the hill sides were furred
white and bowed themselves lowly towards us with each puff of the
casual wind.
I could describe my
own home in very similar terms. I live in a rocky, hilly region, not
so distant from the flat lowlands, that grapevines cannot be
seen. I often find myself caught breathless by the sudden beauty of
windswept grasslands, or the graceful passing shadows of clouds
rushing over the land pushed by the invisible hands of giants in the
sky. I often reflect on the phrase attributed to Jesus Christ 'Split
a log and you will find me, lift a stone and I am there'. It seems
obvious to me that divinity is here on earth in the ordinary moments
of nature. It is a divinity too big for religion.
Life, is too big
for religion.
So, on and on I
read, each morning a chapter, each evening two chapters, and I find
myself smiling at the remarkable, but ordinary truths of the world
that you reveal with the written word and bring to life in my
imagination. Like the story (Chapter XL)of the two young men, Daud
the hasty and his love fellow, Farraj; a beautiful, soft framed
girlish creature with innocent, smooth face and swimming eyes.
They were an instance of the eastern
boy and boy affection which the segregation of women made inevitable.
Such friendships often led to manly loves of a depth and force
beyond our flesh-steeped conceit. When innocent they were hot and
unashamed. If sexuality entered, they passed into a give and take,
unspiritual relation, like marriage.
It is wonderful to
read you open minded views of homosexual relations, and strange that
this was 1916-17, when now, in 2020 in the same region of the world,
men are being imprisoned or exiled for the crime of loving their
fellow man. I have mentioned that I am a musician; well, I was
drumming for a dancer at the opening of a new restaurant in the
central markets of my home city. The restaurant owner had fled his
home in Iran to escape persecution for his sexual orientation.
I live in such an
age, that stories of homosexuality in the middle east are almost
always about persecution. Even in my own country, the laws have only
changed so recently that the celebrations have yet to fully fade
away. However, on the topic, I thought I would bring up the subject
of the Cocek dancers of Turkey, since they are a fascinating slice of
homosexual history that is largely unknown.
Flourishing between
the 17th & 19th centuries, the Cocek
dancers were young boys, trained from about eight years of age. They
were very popular with the male audiences for their provocative and
sexual performances, with fights and even killings resulting from
duels to win the sexual favours of these boys, who were also
prostitutes, as is common throughout history among dancers. (Though
not so much any more – with modern dancers having worked hard to
separate themselves from the oldest profession).
The dance was
eventually outlawed due to these violent outbursts, yet the rhythms
they danced to are as popular as ever among both traditional folk
groups and modern gypsy fusion troupes.
*
Your book is as
much about desert culture as it is about the war, and I delighted to
find your description of tradition coffee making. Sitting around the
fire with your companions after another long day of riding through
the desert....
From Chapter XLV
While we talked the roasted coffee
was dropped with three grains of cardamom into the mortar. Abdulla
brayed it; with the dring-drang, dring-drang pestle strokes of
village Nejd, two equal pairs of legato beats...
...while the coffee-maker boiled up
his coffee, tapped it down again, made a palm-fibre mat to strain it
before he poured (grounds in the cup were evil manners), when there
came a volley from the shadowy dunes east of us and one of the Ageyl
toppled forward into the centre of the firelit circle with a screech.
This is one of the
fascinating parts of your work, Mr Lawrence. You take the time to
describe the moments of peace and the beautiful landscapes,
grasslands, herds of camels and the soldiers in their daily routines,
and at the same time you do not sugar coat the reality of the war you
were fighting.
Even sitting down
to coffee could be a deadly affair.
Mohammed, with his massive foot
thrust a wave of sand over the fire and in the quick blinding
darkness we rolled behind bands of tamarisk and scattered to get
rifles, while our outlying pickets began to return fire, aiming
hurriedly towards the flashes, we had unlimited ammunition, and did
not stint to show it.
Gradually the enemy slackened,
astonished perhaps at our preparedness. Finally his fire stopped,
and we held our own, listening for a rush or for attack from a new
quarter. For half an hour we lay still; and silent, but for the
groans and at last the death struggle of the man hit with the first
volley. Then we were impatient of waiting longer. Zaal went out to
report what was happening to the enemy. After another half-hour he
called to us that no one was left within reach. They had ridden
away: about twenty of them, in his trained opinion.
My coffee last
night was served with crushed ice and blended to a thick and sweet
foam, which I sipped calmly as the sun set and I sat writing at my
desk. My ten year old son played on the floor nearby, building a
Kraken monster from Lego and showing me with dramatic glee how its
tentacles could wrap around the hull and mast of a sailing ship. A
friend of mine, a calligrapher and student of linguistics at the
local university, came for dinner and we spent out evening talking
about music and language. My son told us a story he had made up
about a wizard who accidentally created a monster who consumed the
powers of other magical beings and artifacts in order to grow
stronger. The beast had the power to alter reality, or in my son's
actual words: To make air where once there was only water, or to
make fruit where once there was only a desert.
Just as you, Mr
Lawrence, have an influence on me and on my writing, so I have raised
my son to appreciate the dramatic arts and to create magic with his
words.
❤️
ReplyDelete♥️🎉
ReplyDelete